Read Online Fifty Shades Freed by E. L. James - Free Book Online

hand into the damp hair at his forehead, gripping tightly to hold him still. He clenches his eyes closed and parts his lips as he inhales. Very gently, I stroke his razor up from his neck to his chin, revealing a path of skin beneath the lather. Christian exhales.
    “Did you think I was going to hurt you?”
    “I never know what you’re going to do, Ana, but no—not intentionally.”
    I run the razor up his neck again, clearing a wider path in the lather.
    “I would never intentionally hurt you, Christian.”
    He opens his eyes and circles his arms around me as I gently drag the razor down his cheek from the bottom of his sideburn.
    “I know,” he says, angling his face so I can shave the rest of his cheek. Two more strokes and I’ve finished.
    “All done, and not a drop of blood spilled.” I grin proudly.
    He runs his hand up my leg so that my nightdress rides up my thigh and pulls me on to his lap so that I’m astride him. I steady myself with my hands on his upper arms. He’s really very muscular.
    “Can I take you somewhere today?”
    “No sunbathing?” I arch a caustic brow at him.
    He licks his lips nervously. “No. No sunbathing today. I thought you might prefer something else.”
    “Well, since you’ve covered me in hickeys and effectively put the kibosh on that, sure, why not?”
    Wisely he chooses to ignore my tone. “It’s a drive, but it’s worth a visit from what I’ve read. My dad recommended we visit. It’s a hilltop village called Saint Paul de Vence. There are some galleries there. I thought we could pick out some paintings or sculptures for the new house, if we find anything we like.”
    Holy crap. I lean back and gaze at him. Art . . . he wants to buy art. How can I buy art?
    “What?” he asks.
    “I know nothing about art, Christian.”
    He shrugs and smiles at me indulgently. “We’ll only buy what we like. This isn’t about investment.”
    Investment? Jeez.
    “What?” he says again.
    I shake my head.
    “Look, I know we only got the architect’s drawings the other day—but there’s no harm in looking, and the town is an ancient, medieval place.”
    Oh, the architect. He had to remind me of her . . . Gia Matteo, a friend of Elliot’s who worked on Christian’s place in Aspen. During our meetings, she’d been all over Christian like a rash.
    “What now?” Christian exclaims. I shake my head. “Tell me,” he urges.
    How can I tell him that I don’t like Gia? My dislike is irrational. I don’t want to come across as the jealous wife.
    “You’re not still mad about what I did yesterday?” He sighs and nuzzles his face between my breasts.
    “No. I’m hungry,” I mutter, knowing full well that this will distract him from this line of questioning.
    “Why didn’t you say?” He eases me off his lap and stands.
    Saint Paul de Vence is a medieval, fortified, hilltop village, one of the most picturesque places I have ever seen. I stroll arm in arm with Christian through the narrow cobblestone streets with my hand in the back pocket of his shorts. Taylor and either Gaston or Philippe—I can’t tell the difference between them—trail behind us. We pass a tree-covered square where three old men, one wearing a traditional beret in spite of the heat, are playing boules. It’s quite crowded with tourists, but I feel comfortable tucked under Christian’s arm. There is so much to see—little alleys and passageways leading to courtyards with intricate stone fountains, ancient and modern sculptures, and fascinating little boutiques and shops.
    In the first gallery, Christian gazes distractedly at the erotic photographs in front of us, sucking gently on the arm of his aviator specs. They are the work of Florence D’elle—naked women in various poses.
    “Not quite what I had in mind,” I mumble disapprovingly. They make me think of the box of photographs I found in his closet, our closet. I wonder if he ever did destroy them.
    “Me neither,” Christian says,